A Drow in Exile - Episode 3

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The deep green gloom of the forest surrounded Sy'lathris, and she cursed under her breath at the fearful way in which she'd learned to move since her flight from the underground city. She ought to stand proudly, ready to strike down any underling who would dare show her even a hair of insubordination... but now, that pride, though not broken completely, was cracked. Nursing her seething rage, the drow picked her way carefully between the thick, gnarled trunks of the forest. She'd gone past where any woodcutters from the human settlements dared to come, but despite that relief, she still felt a certain unease gripping her innards. Life in a drow city was never truly safe, even for those in positions of power, but Sy'lathris felt even more unsafe now. Any instinctive comfort the trees offered had vanished, and now the forest just seemed like a foreboding, alien maze of rough tree-trunks and the loamy smell of fallen leaves and earth. She felt weary like the old among humans felt weary, an unfamiliar feeling to the ever-youthful drow; she even looked like she'd aged, her face not wrinkled, but haggard with exhaustion and a growing creep of despair. Leaning on the makeshift walking-stick she'd picked up from the forest floor, she considered that she had no map, no guide, and only a vague idea of what she was looking for at all. She had always considered herself independent, but in truth she had been pampered by underlings and menservants who were faithful out of fear if not affection—at least, as faithful as drow would be. Roughing it in this crazy world above ground was something she hadn't been able to imagine until she was already doing it.

Still feeling tense, Sy'lathris settled herself on the next fallen tree she came across, the emerald moss cushioning her as she sat down upon it and heaved a sigh. She couldn't shake the feeling that there were enemies about; however, there were no signs that this was an elven-wood, going by the lore she'd learned from the tomes in her library. An encounter with wood elves in this state could prove disastrous for her; while they would probably be less inclined to abuse her body in the ways she'd suffered under the troll and the farm boy, they would doubtless imprison her, perhaps indefinitely, if they did not slay her outright.

Perhaps she was too paranoid, she argued with herself, but from her deep well of experience her answering warning came: it would not do to ignore the intuitions that had kept her alive this long, even if ill had befallen her of late. Scanning the surroundings with her tired amber eyes, she saw nothing she recognized as untoward, but the unease did not lift. Rising, she determined that she ought to leave the spot where she was sitting; perhaps a safer shelter would offer itself soon, that thought motivating her to press onward despite the weariness of her maddeningly weak body.

The shrubs around her seemed to move and shift, perhaps it was one of the unpredictable currents of air that she'd noticed swept frequently across the world above ground; "wind," that was what they called it.

It was only when something that she was certain hadn't been there a moment before tripped her that she looked at the rustling shrubs more closely, her eyes widening with growing horror. They weren't plants at all, but camouflaged creatures adapted to mimic them, and the thing that had tripped the wandering drow was a thick vine-like tentacle that was now looping around her leg, spiralling up her calf like a snake up a tree.

Sy'lathris clubbed at the tentacles with her walking-stick, lips curled in a snarl. The things—whatever they were—didn't relent, seeming to have no understanding of her words or tone when she began to curse at them; she wasn't even sure if they could feel the blows she was laying on them. The coiling tentacles worked their way into her clothes, exploring her body and soon teasing apart what was part of her flesh and what was a mere garment, her recently-aquired rags soon torn from her body despite her vehement protests. She was soon covered with the gripping green tentacles, her black skin sheened with sweat as she bucked and swore against their restraint. There wasn't enough strength in her, though, her body elven-thin to begin with and even slimmer from wasting away.

Now bare, the drow was hefted from the ground by the writing mass of tentacles, prehensile appendages stroking and exploring her body, the slimy green flesh dirtying her own silken ebon skin. Soon, the tentacles were exploring her delectable cunt, poking and exploring before sliding into her, the slime making it go easily, though it did nothing to reduce the drow's rage as she was raped once again, this time by a thing that didn't even resemble her own kind in the slightest. Monsters of similar nature dwelt in the darkness below the earth as well, but the drow societies knew those species and avoided or exterminated them; these creatures had caught Sy'lathris unaware and that infuriated her even more. The only comfort she had was knowing that, if it were like those underground species, it was unlikely to have killing her as its goal, especially given the interested probing of her body that it was now performing. It would rape, to be sure, but then, perhaps, it would leave her be, and she had now survived such uses before. The slimy, green flesh slithered into her cunt, and she winced as the tip of it smacked against her cervix, pressing a few times, then allowing her a ragged sigh of relief as it relented, content to wriggle in her vaginal passage as more tentacles joined it, filling her fuller and fuller.

Soon, she could feel one of the tentacles pushing at her anus, and struggled harder, thrashing and clawing in the hopeless web of bitter, green appendages that ensnared her. Having her cunt raped was one thing; it was an expectation that a drow lady such as herself might mate with less than gentle demons for the sake of bearing a strong brood, though only at her own choice and for the sake of her offspring. Having the barren tract of her rectum violated was quite another thing; that passage was meant for her waste and not the pleasure of another being, and she didn't think she'd ever be able to endure that sort of abuse without balking. Despite her struggles, though, the slimy thing was slowly invading her tightly clenched anus, drawing an anguished moan from her as she was unwillingly sodomized once again. At least it was not so painful as the troll's terrible girth, the memory of which made her snarl and struggle harder against the creature's appendages, only succeeding in getting herself all the more tangled in the writhing, throbbing mess.

Her curses were cut off as another tentacle shoved its way into her mouth, probing so far down her throat that she feared she would vomit, a series of pitiful chokes and gags gurgling up from her mouth where proud commands had once issued. Her eyes rolled back as saliva mixed with tentacle-slime drooled out over her ebon lips, her mind going hazy as she began to vaguely fear that she might suffocate. Gradually, she acclimated to the writhing and pulsating of the tentacle in her throat, her muffled chokes coming less frequently as she grew dizzy from lack of air, but then the tentacle withdrew from her gullet as quickly as it had invaded, allowing her to gasp for air.

The thing seemed to have a sense of how the lack of breath affected her, though, and the reprieve was short-lived as the tentacle that had left her mouth began to coil around her throat, slithering slimily across her glossy black skin as it tightened. Sy'lathris renewed her struggles, her lithe limbs thrashing against the grip of the tentacles, given some little strength from her panic. She'd been humiliated and infuriated, but not broken, and she certainly didn't want to die. Hissing, she tried to bite the throbbing appendage that wrapped round her neck, her white teeth clicking together, creating a stark contrast with her snarling black lips. The tentacle evaded her despite her growing agitation, her struggles only wearing out her supply of oxygen faster. Sparks danced at the corners of her vision as darkness closed in, and just before she passed out from the strangling, her urethra grew involuntarily slack, a hot golden stream pouring from the silken black orchid of her violated cunt as she pissed herself like a terrified animal.

Sy'lathris awoke to a pain in her throat, her breath rasping, as she took air once more, but painfully. The writhing, churning movements in her vagina and anus soon let her know that she had not yet escaped experiencing her rape at the tentacles of the plant monster, either. It was churning rapidly inside her now, the tentacles in her cunt finding their way to her cervix and trying to press through again, settling for positioning themselves right at its opening when they could not pass. Her stomach and the small of her back ached; her intestine had been deeply invaded by the monster's coils, their ends so far inside her that whatever they released would take hours at least to be transported down to her rectum where she could expel it.

With her mouth open to gasp for breath, it was easy for another tentacle to suddenly invade her throat as she was lifted and bucked about by the thrashing of the slimy green tendrils. Sy'lathris choked as the tentacles inside her began to ejaculate some sort of thick, lumpy goop, full of little spherical gobs. She could feel them forcing through the tight neck of her womb until it was uncomfortably full, while the surges that pumped through the tentacle in her anus like a string of beads unloaded deep in her intestine, spreading out in a slimy, lumpy mess.

It definitely wasn't semen that the thing had released in her, but it took a moment for her to register what the lumps were. Eggs! Her struggles were renewed in a burst of rage. The vile thing was trying to use her body to incubate eggs! Her struggles were in vain as she tried to escape being filled, but the things were being pumped into her throat, cunt and ass with surprising force. She was at the monster's mercy until it finally relaxed and fell away from her, lurching back into the forest to blend with the foliage once again. A few eggs leaked out of the humiliated drow, clear orbs with smaller black ones at their centers, like frog's eggs.

This couldn't stand, Sy'lathris raged silently. Reaching down to her cunt, she began working at the eggs inside her, doing her best to scoop them all out from inside with her fingers, smashing a few spitefully on a rock, turning them into a disgusting goopy paste. The ones deeper inside her were harder to fish out, and she found herself working her hand into her skilled cunt to remove them, the stretching unpleasant but bearable through her rage, more bearable than having some monster's eggs growing in her, at least. Finally, she crept to some nearby bushes—making sure that they really were bushes before taking a place among them—then squatted down, grimacing as she did her best to empty her bowels of the eggs that had been pumped into her there, hating the humiliating feeling of the slimy mess exiting her tight black anus, the gooey yet firm orbs creating unwanted sensations in her bowels each time one passed through. She decided not to worry about the ones in her stomach—despite her disgust, she'd needed a meal anyway, and could reasonably hope that there was no poison in the eggs if they had been meant to incubate in her body. She didn't want to think about the alternative, or what might become of the eggs that had been laid deep enough to escape her purging.

Having cleaned herself out as best she could, Sy'lathris was just pulling what was left of her garments closer around herself when the sound of an old human woman's voice made her freeze in her tracks.

"Oh, dear, you've gone and wasted them. I could have used those eggs! But ah, you're a traveller and couldn't know better. What a sorry state you're in... come along, let's get you fixed up."

Sy'lathris sized her up. A woman, perhaps, wouldn't be so keen on ravishing her dark elven body, but still, she was a paleskin. The drow's amber eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the old hag who leaned over her—or perhaps was permanently bent over. Her nose wrinkled with disgust at how paleskin bodies deteriorated, unlike the ever-young elven bloodlines. The human was smiling at her, gap-toothed and hook nosed, but speaking gently enough as she continued, "Don't you speak the tongue, black one? Come, there's a warm hearth in my hut, and stew aplenty though it not be rich."

The old woman reached down and offered her hand to the grimacing drow, who reluctantly took it, the human's surprisingly wiry arm hoisting her to her feet. Still unsure of herself, Sy'lathris slowly followed, too tired and ragged to resist for the moment as the old woman picked her way along a barely discernable trail which, the drow noted, seemed to go deeper into the wood rather than back towards the village she had left. She was too tired to speculate what might await her next.

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